


099 - Weed & Fluff

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “i just want one smoking (weed) with him that would be really funny and cute/fluffy or one that turns into a smut it’s up to u!”





	099 - Weed & Fluff

**Author's Note:**

> I will always pick cute and fluffy over smut. I hope this makes you all laugh and feel all gooey inside. I hope that however much you wanted to get high with Van McCann before is now timed by at least ten. Also, I know it’s short, but good things come in small packages? (Evidence: Larry. More evidence: Me.)

“Van McCann but Van McShouldn't," you said. 

"If I were pansexual - Van McPan," he suggested, and for a moment you imagined Van making out with a dude. In your daydream, the dude was Cole Sprouse. You smiled. If. You were still sceptical about that one.

It was early and you'd come out of the bedroom to find Van spaced out on the couch. You smoked some weed together and started a conversation about Van's stupid name. "Van… Van… Do you know what we're doing?" you asked him. He slowly shook his head at you, smiling and waiting for the punchline. "Improving our... Vanacular." You paused between words for dramatic effect.

"Holy shit, Y/N, that's genius," he praised. 

"Do you remember that time you saw that 'van accessible' sign and thought it was the funniest thing ever?" you asked. He handed over the joint, nodding.

"It was," 

"Yeah… Van McTrashCan," you said.

"If I run for president, Yes We Van,"

"Oh, that one was Vantastic. God, I'm just your Number One Van," you leant over and kissed him on the cheek. He looked at you, and you looked at him, and you both exploded in laughter. Your favourite sound.

"Fucking Humpty Dumpty," he said. You nodded.

The joint burnt down to nothing, and you both fell silent. You could hear the mechanical whirling of the fridge, birds through the open lounge room window, and the radio in the kitchen. You were lying on the couch together; your heads side by side on the middle section, legs hanging off your respective arm rests.

"Van?" you said again when he didn't respond.

"What?"

"Please?"

"Please what?" you could hear the genuine confusion. He must have been deep in thought.

"I asked for food," you repeated.

He started to laugh. Hysterically. "Babe…" he managed to say. "You…" he tried again. It took him another minute to stop laughing. "You deffo did not say a thing to me about food,"

"Yeah. I said 'Van can you get me some food' and then you didn't say anything?" 

You were so sure. He laughed again. You tried to remember, then suddenly you did. A stupid, far-reaching grin spread across your face. He was right. He stood up and walked to the kitchen, still laughing. He returned with an apple cut into slices and a jar of peanut butter. Your go-to high as fuck snack.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I have something really important to tell you," he said. You turned your head to the side to face him. He was back lying next to you, his head next to yours. He was looking straight up at the roof. "Just then, when you were looking the other way, your hair was tickling my face,"

"That's what you have to tell me?"

"Yeah,"

"The really important thing?"

Van nodded and turned to face you. You smiled and he smiled at you smiling. You kissed in the awkward sidewards position you were in. He got his phone out then and started to search through his music library for something. You recognised the song when it started. The new Alt-J track.

"This reminds me of you," he said.

Offended, you replied, "You don't like Alt-J?"

"Yeah. Not the song, but the lyrics. Just wait for it."

The song rolled along, and you said that it was no Breezeblocks, but when Van didn't reply you realised you'd just thought it. That was a stoned you thing. Thoughts wouldn't always verbalise like you meant them to. He hand went up in the air, indicating the lyric was approaching. I just want to love you in my own language.

"You do, though," you whispered. He nodded, watching his hand above his head move about in the air.

"I dooooooooo," he repeated, "love you in my own language."

He turned to look at you again, and an expression of love melted quickly into mischief. Two closely aligned emotions for Van. He sat and you looked up at him. Then, the pain descended. Van was on top of you, tickling. You tried to get away, but he pulled you back under him. You instinctively kicked and punched. Your knee collided with his stomach and he fell off the couch winded. Up and running, Van followed you to the bedroom. You closed the door and held it shut. He was on the other side tapping gently.

"Babe!" he called, "Let me in! I just wanna love you in my own language!"

"Don't ruin that moment!" you yelled back. He went quiet and you couldn't tell if he was still there. Letting go of the door, you looked under it for shadows or feet. In the motion to move, Van opened the door. You scrambled along the floor backwards. He picked you up, threw you on the bed and was back tickling. Your sides started to split and it was agony. You couldn't breathe and you tried to yell for him to stop.

"What's wrong?" Van asked, his tone patronising. "Ouch kabibble?"

"No!" you finally had enough breath to say. He stopped for a second, but his hands stayed on your ribcage. "Not ouch kabibble. Actually does hurt," you whined. Van smiled and crinkled his nose up in disbelief. You pouted, to which he replied with a kiss. He collapsed on top of you and it pushed out the last of the air in your lungs. You pushed him off, sucked air in hard, and looked around. Van held a hand out for you as he stood up.

"Tea? Another smoke?"

You nodded and followed Van back out to the weed.


End file.
